Brokered Submission (3 page)

Once they wove their way out of the crush of city traffic, Dylan made good time. He glanced over at Zoë as he drove along Bronx River Parkway toward his Scarsdale home. She was quiet, her eyes on the road, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. It was after eleven, but he wasn’t the least bit tired, or if he was, the adrenaline kicking around like rocket fuel in his gut wouldn’t let him realize it.

What an extraordinary opportunity. The whole concept of taking an innocent—a total neophyte in the world of BDSM—and introducing her to its dark pleasures and infinite intensity, had completely taken him over since it had leaped full-blown into his brain at the bar. Zoë was a blank slate with the potential, he sensed, to become a masterpiece of erotic submission and grace. She had no preconceived notions, no negative experience to undo.

He slowed as he exited the highway and wended his way through the large, tree-lined streets of his quiet neighborhood. He pulled into his driveway and pressed the garage door remote on the visor. He eased the car into its space, turned off the engine, and turned to face his lovely, willing captive. She was still staring straight ahead, her hands now clenched into fists on either thigh.

“You all right?” Dylan touched Zoë’s shoulder, and she flinched.

“Hey, it’s all good, you know?” he said gently. She said nothing. “Zoë, look at me.” Slowly she turned her head in his direction, her dark eyes wide, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Dylan stroked her cheek. “Listen to me, Zoë. It’s not too late to turn around and forget this whole thing.” Dylan could barely admit to himself how much her response mattered. He waited a beat, but she still said nothing.

He took her hand, and she didn’t pull away. She stared down at their hands, as if tracing the lines in her mind. “I’m going to ask you something, Zoë, and I want you to answer honestly.”

Zoë looked up again. “What?” she whispered.

“Something happened between us back at the bar. I know you have no experience with BDSM and the power of erotic submission, but I sensed something in you—a direct and immediate response, even yearning, for the potential of what I’m offering you this weekend. The Dom in me connected on a gut level to the sub in you. Even if this business deal didn’t exist, I find I want—no, let me go even further—I
need
to explore your submissive potential with you. This is an amazing opportunity for us both—a full forty-eight hours with no outside distractions, no other commitments, and none of the usual emotional complications of a new relationship to navigate in the process. It will just be you and me—no pretense, no artifice, no games. Even without the promise of investment money, I sense that, on some level, you want this as much as I do. Am I wrong?”

The world stood still as he waited for her answer.

“No,” she said at last in a low but clear voice. “You’re not wrong. Something happened back in the bar when you were saying those things to me. At first I thought you were just trying to shock me, but even if that were the case, the words somehow bypassed my brain and went right to my”—she broke off, her cheeks reddening. She laughed nervously and tossed back her hair—”my body. Or not even just my body, but my…”

“Your soul,” Dylan provided, forcing himself to stay calm and centered, sensing this was the moment they would seal the deal, or it would fall to pieces.

“Yes,” she whispered, and then louder, “Yes.”

Just to be absolutely sure, Dylan reiterated, “Then you’re prepared to honor the terms of our agreement? You will submit to me fully for the duration of this weekend? You agree to be my sexual submissive, to accept, endure and embrace my training, and to trust I will keep you safe from harm, but know I will push every erotic and sensual boundary you possess?”

Zoë drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She nodded. “I do.”

“You need to understand that once you step out of this car, your will is no longer your own. For the duration of the weekend, I will decide when you sleep, when you eat, when you use the bathroom, when you receive pleasure and when you endure pain. You will be directed, controlled, sexually used, bound, erotically tortured, and exhaustively trained in the art of submission.”

Zoë had stopped twisting her hands. They rested easily on her lap, and while he could feel her excitement and the tension of expectation, he could sense her determination. All the marks of a true sub were plain on her face and in her bearing. She was born to this, even if she didn’t know it yet.

Her words bore out his belief. “Yes. I agree to the terms.”

Dylan barely acknowledged to himself the relief that flooded through his being at her pronouncement. “Good,” he said. “Then it begins. Now.”

Zoë started to reach for the door handle, but Dylan said, “Wait. Before we go in, I want to go over a few rules and regulations.” She let her hand fall away and turned once more to regard him. “First of all,” he continued, “slave girls don’t wear clothing in my house. That means you will strip here in the garage. You can leave your clothes in the car, and I’ll collect them for you later.”

Zoë opened her mouth as if to protest. Dylan shook his head. “Shh, no talking. That’s the second rule. Slave girls do not speak unless asked a direct question. When you do speak, you will address me as Sir. For the duration of the weekend, I am not Dylan. I am Sir to you. Is that understood?”

Again there was a long pause. Zoë’s cheeks were still flushed and her eyes were fever-bright. “Yes, Sir,” she finally said, her low sultry voice and the import of her words sending a jolt of hot desire directly to his cock.

~*~

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Even as these words looped endlessly through her mind, Zoë slipped off her shoes. It being summer, she wore no stockings, and the cement floor was cool beneath her bare feet. Dylan stood nearby, watching her as she undressed, his expression implacable, save for the spark of lust and power in his golden-brown eyes.

When she was down to her bra and panties, she hesitated, her gut clenching with nerves. It wasn’t that she was shy about her body, but it felt so inequitable to be stripping naked for this virtual stranger while he stood there, her overnight bag in his hand, watching her every move.

Dylan cocked an eyebrow, waiting. Blowing out a breath, Zoë reached back and unhooked her bra, letting it fall forward on her arms. He didn’t look away as she pulled down her panties and stepped carefully out of them. She laid her things on the car seat and closed the door, standing uncertainly in front of the man who would dictate her every move for the next two days.

It was as if he had stepped out of an erotic romance novel, brought to life by her secret, barely acknowledged longing for something more. But those were just dark, sexy words on a page designed to fuel her fantasies when she masturbated late at night, alone in her bed and in search of release. This was no fantasy, and Dylan was no paper hero. He was flesh and blood—a real man with his own agenda.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

And yet, if she were totally honest with herself, she wanted to do it. And not just to secure the investment funds. He was right, though she had no idea how he knew—his words and promises had resonated, connecting to something bright and fierce at the core of her being.

Dylan punched numbers into a keypad on the door. He turned the knob and flicked on the light. They stepped into a large kitchen equipped with the expected stainless steel appliances, granite countertops and ceramic-tiled flooring. Dylan led her to a bar and directed that she sit. She perched on the edge of the barstool and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Are you cold?” Dylan asked, regarding her. “I can raise the thermostat.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m good…Sir,” she added after a moment.

He smiled and moved to the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of white wine and placed it on the counter. Opening a cabinet door, he removed two crystal wine glasses, which he set beside the bottle.

Extracting the cork, he poured wine into each glass and turned toward her, both glasses in his hands. He held one out to her, and Zoë took it gratefully, in need of a bit of liquid courage. She drank the fruity, crisp wine in two gulps. Dylan lifted an eyebrow and held out the bottle. He’d barely sipped from his own glass. “A little more?”

“Yes, please…Sir,” Zoë said, offering her empty glass. He filled it again, and this time she sipped more slowly. Dylan took some things out of the refrigerator as she sipped, and in a moment he placed a plate of sliced cheese and crackers before her. Zoë realized she was hungry, the pizza they’d all shared at the bar hours before now a distant memory.

She ate a few of the crackers topped with cheese and had more of the wine. It was surreal in the extreme to be sitting there naked as a jaybird in this man’s kitchen. The quiet but persistent mantra of incredulity at what she had committed herself to spooled in a continuous loop through her brain:
I can’t believe I’m doing this, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Finally Dylan said, “It’s time, Zoë. Your submission begins now. Stand up with your arms at your sides.”

Zoë’s heart instantly kicked into high gear and her legs wobbled a little as she stood from the barstool.
In for a penny, in for a pound
, she reminded herself.

Reaching into a drawer, Dylan pulled out what looked like a dog collar and a leash. The collar was red and made of thick, sturdy canvas, held closed with a Velcro strap. He pulled the Velcro open and brought the collar to her throat. Instinctively, Zoë took a step back.

“I didn’t tell you to move,” Dylan said quietly. “Stay as you are. You will wear this collar for the duration of your stay here. It is both a symbol of your servitude, and a useful device for securing you.”

Humiliation surged through Zoë, warming her face as Dylan wrapped the collar around her throat. A part of her wanted to smack his hands away and retort that she was not a
dog
, for god’s sake, and would not wear anybody’s collar. But an odd thing happened as he pressed the Velcro closed. A melting heat spread through her body and stiffened her nipples. Without meaning to, she touched the collar, tugging gently against its confines, a small voice whispering from some secret place,
yes
.

Dylan clipped the metal leash to the O-ring at the center of the collar and gave it an experimental tug, pulling Zoë forward a step. Again her mind wanted to rebel, to retort, to demand, but instead she only moaned softly, her clit pulsing with need.

He reached for her overnight bag, which he’d set on the floor by the counter. As he slung it over his shoulder, he said, “It’s late and it’s been a long day. Come, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

He led her by the leash out of the kitchen into a narrow room just beside it that she recognized from her grandparents’ old house as a butler’s pantry. At the back of the pantry was a door, which opened to reveal a descending staircase. She gripped the bannister as he led her slowly down the smooth wooden steps.

The basement floor was cement and the room was empty, save for a fancy washer and dryer set and a counter with a sink. He led her past the washer and dryer to a door at the back of the room.

He turned the deadbolt beneath the knob and pushed open the door. The thick red carpet inside the room was soft beneath her bare feet. “For the next forty-eight hours,” Dylan said in his deep, sexy voice, “this space will become your world. You will eat here, sleep here, bathe here”—he pointed toward another smaller room visible through an open doorframe from which the door itself had been removed—“and train here. You exist only to serve me from this point on. You are my property to train and to use as I see fit.”

There was a twin bed in the corner of the room covered in a white sheet, a white duvet folded at the foot, a single pillow at its head. All sorts of strange equipment filled the rest of the space, including a large wooden X cross with cuffs chained to each of its four corners. There was a padded bench covered in black leather, more cuffs secured along its perimeter. A large animal cage stood along the wall opposite the bed with newspaper and a water bowl inside it, making Zoë wonder if Dylan kept a pet. He must have been following her gaze, because he said, “That’s the punishment cage.”

“My god,” Zoë whispered faintly, a shudder of trepidation moving through her frame. For the first time, the full import of what she’d agreed to hit her like a sledgehammer. She hadn’t told a soul where she was. Clearly this wasn’t the first time Dylan had used this room. What if women went down here willingly enough, but never came out? What if she’d just walked into the lair of a madman? What if tonight was her last on earth?

“Hey,” Dylan said softly. “Calm down. Breathe.” He unclipped the leash from her collar and put his arm around her. Despite the possibility he was a serial killer, Zoë leaned into his comforting embrace. He guided her to the bed and she sat, suddenly nearly overwhelmed with exhaustion.

Dylan pressed her gently back against the pillow. He cupped her cheek, his voice still gentle, his eyes kind. “I understand you’re completely new to this. I expect obedience and grace, but I don’t expect perfection. Because of our limited time, the experience will be intense and fast-paced. I will correct you when you err, but by the same token, I will reward you when you succeed.”

His hand moved from her cheek to her neck, his fingers curling lightly around her throat just above the loose collar. Again a tremor moved through her body at his touch and she began to tremble, though not from fear, but rather from a strange, quaking desire she herself didn’t understand.

His hand still on her throat, he lowered his head and his lips found hers. The kiss was gentle at first—an exploration, a whisper of promised passion. Then his tongue pressed itself between her lips. He tasted of the wine they’d shared, and his tongue was warm and wet against hers. His hand tightened at her throat as he kissed her, his other hand cupping her breast. His fingers moved over her skin, finding her nipple. His mouth still locked on hers, his one hand still tight on her throat, he pinched her nipple with his other hand, and then twisted it, sending a sudden, sharp explosion of pain through her nerve endings.